The New Year came as quickly as the previous one had passed. The peaceful decompression from the battlefield ended far too soon for comfort, while paradoxically not soon enough.
Either way, Erich once more found himself on a train headed back to active service.
He and his men were not scheduled for immediate redeployment to combat. Instead, the next few months would be spent out of rotation, training on new weapons platforms and bringing the latest replacements up to speed.
The war was still raging, but for now, preparation had replaced bloodshed.
The train car was filled with other soldiers, each in a similar position, though many were from entirely different units.
Tyrol was known primarily for producing Gebirgsjäger, not airborne infantry or Panzergrenadiers.
Erich could count himself among the few natives of the Grand Principality who had taken to the skies rather than the mountains, and it did not go unnoticed.
The patch on his bicep drew stares. Quiet whispers followed him down the aisle.
His brigade carried a particular prestige, one normally reserved for Jagdkommandos, Kampfschwimmers, and other elite formations that existed on the edge of doctrine and myth.
Not because they were the world’s best door-kickers, frogmen, or ghosts that stalked the dunes and caused entire armies to vanish without leaving a trace.
But because they had seen the thickest fighting of the war across every front, and had miraculously survived it all.
Few units in the Reichsheer carried casualty rates as high as Erich’s. Fewer still had endured such sustained brutality and remained combat-effective.
The "Fighting Falcons," as they were affectionately known, had earned a reputation as the spearhead of the Reichsheer.
No matter how loudly other airborne formations claimed equal distinction, few believed it.
Yet none of the men aboard dared interrupt Erich as he sat in silence, eyes distant, posture rigid. Not only because of the insignia on his uniform, but because of the rank it carried.
A colonel with such a young face, and such an old gaze, was not a man to be approached lightly. Only the greenest of recruits would ever make that mistake.
And when the train finally arrived, Erich slung his ruck over his shoulders and stood. To his surprise, the entire cabin rose with him and rendered a salute. Not out of regulation, but respect.
He returned it with a single nod and disembarked onto the platform outside one of the largest military installations in the Fatherland.
An armored transport waited nearby. The driver quickly took Erich’s bags and stowed them in the rear before opening the door.
As the vehicle pulled away toward the rally point, Erich noticed the driver’s repeated glances, wide-eyed, reverent, distracted.
It wasn’t curiosity that bothered him, it was negligence.
"Keep your eyes on the road," Erich said quietly. "That’s your job, Soldat."
The driver snapped forward instantly, chastened. The rest of the journey passed in stiff silence, but it was smooth enough.
When they arrived, the driver saluted sharply and departed almost too quickly, as though eager to escape further scrutiny.
Erich barely had time to adjust before he was ambushed by his subordinate officers.
"There he is! Our fearless leader!" one of them barked. "So... did you and the missus add another brat to the roster over New Year’s? Come on, Falke, don’t hold out on us!"
Erich pushed past them, unimpressed, shaking his head like a weary father confronted with misbehaving children.
"Mind your surroundings, idiots," he said. "We’re not in the field anymore. The pogs expect decorum. You never know which insecure twat is watching just to write someone up and feel important."
The mood shifted instantly. Years of feral familiarity snapped back into discipline as the men straightened and saluted properly. Erich returned it with visible reluctance.
"At ease, gentlemen," he continued. "I know you’re restless, but we won’t be seeing combat again until late spring. Until then, keep yourselves civilized. I don’t want to file reprimands because someone forgot how to shave or thought grabbing playing grab ass with a commissioned officer was funny."
He paused for a moment, as if internalizing his own words before continuing.
"We’ve got new material to cover and some toys from Berlin to test. So at least we won’t be bored. That is all for now... dismissed."
The men dispersed, energy contained once more.
Left alone, Erich reached into his coat pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. His fingers steadied only after the smoke filled his lungs.
The familiar ritual grounded him, drawing his thoughts inward, mirroring the same reflections his grandfather once faced upon returning from war.
Peace, he realized, was not an end.
The words lingered in his mind long after the smoke had dissipated.
Peace was not the absence of violence. He had learned that early. It was merely the space between storms, the quiet where men pretended the world had changed while sharpening knives behind closed doors.
The Reich was at peace now, at least on paper. The trains ran on time, the cities glowed with clean energy, and families gathered beneath warm roofs.
And yet here he was again.
Erich exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl and vanish into the cold air. The battlefield had followed him home once before, into his dreams, into the silence between words spoken to his wife, into the pauses where his children studied him with unfamiliar eyes.
He had thought returning to service would quiet those ghosts. Instead, it gave them structure.
There was comfort in routine. In rank. In purpose so clearly defined that doubt had no room to breathe.
Out here, he did not have to pretend he was whole. Out here, broken things were expected.
He adjusted his coat and straightened his posture, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders like familiar armor.
If peace truly existed, he thought, then soldiers like him would be unnecessary.
And yet the world continued to train them.
Erich flicked the cigarette away, grinding it beneath his boot without ceremony, and turned toward the barracks where his men were already gathering.
If peace was a lie, then war, at least, was honest.
And honesty, he had learned, was easier to live with.